The Complete Mapp & Lucia (104 page)

‘My dear, is that yours?’ said Georgie. ‘And absolutely impromptu like that! You’re too brilliant.’

It was not quite impromptu, for Lucia had thought of it in her bath. But it would be meticulous to explain that.

‘Wicked of me, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘But it expresses my feelings just now. I do want a change, and my happening to see this notice of Miss Mapp’s in
The Times
seems a very remarkable coincidence. Almost as if it was sent: what they call a leading. Anyhow, you and I will drive over to Tilling tomorrow and see it. Let us make a jaunt of it, Georgie, for it’s a long way, and stay the night at an inn there. Then we shall have plenty of time to see the place.’

This was rather a daring project, and Georgie was not quite sure if it was proper. But he knew himself well enough to be certain that no passionate impulse of his would cause Lucia to regret that she had made so intimate a proposal.

‘That’ll be the greatest fun,’ he said. ‘I shall take my painting things. I haven’t sketched for weeks.’

‘Cattivo ragazzo!’
said Lucia. ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’

‘Nothing. There’s been no one to play the piano with, and no one, who knows, to show my sketches to. Hours of croquet, just killing the time. Being Drake. How that fête bores me!’

”Oo poor thing!’ said Lucia, using again the baby-talk in which she and Georgie used so often to indulge. ‘But me’s back again now, and me will scold ‘oo vewy vewy much if ‘oo does not do your lessons.’

‘And me vewy glad to be scolded again,’ said Georgie. ‘Me idle boy! Dear me, how nice it all is!’ he exclaimed enthusiastically.

The clock on the old oak dresser struck ten, and Lucia jumped up.

‘Georgie, ten o’clock already,’ she cried. ‘How time has flown. Now I’ll write out a telegram to be sent to Miss Mapp first thing tomorrow to say we’ll get to Tilling in the afternoon, to see her house, and then ickle
musica.
There was a Mozart duet we used to play. We might wrestle with it again.’

She opened the book that stood on the piano. Luckily that was the very one Georgie had been practising this morning. (So too had Lucia.) ‘That will be lovely,’ he said. ‘But you mustn’t scold me if I play vewy badly. Months since I looked at it.’

‘Me too,’ said Lucia. ‘Here we are! Shall I take the treble? It’s a little easier for my poor fingers. Now:
Uno, due, tre!
Off we go!’

They arrived at Tilling in the middle of the afternoon, entering it from the long level road that ran across the reclaimed marshland to the west. Blue was the sky overhead, complete with larks and small white clouds; the town lay basking in the hot June sunshine, and its narrow streets abounded in red-brick houses with tiled roofs, that shouted Queen Anne and George I in Lucia’s enraptured ears, and made Georgie’s fingers itch for his sketching-tools.

‘Dear Georgie, perfectly enchanting!’ exclaimed Lucia. ‘I declare I feel at home already. Look, there’s another lovely house. We must just drive to the end of this street, and then we’ll inquire where Mallards is. The people, too, I like their looks. Faces full of interest. It’s as if they expected us.’

The car had stopped to allow a dray to turn into the High Street from a steep cobbled way leading to the top of the hill. On the pavement at the corner was standing quite a group of Tillingites: there was a clergyman, there was a little round bustling woman dressed in a purple frock covered with pink roses which looked as if they were made of chintz, there was a large military-looking man with a couple of golf-clubs in his hand, and there was a hatless girl with hair closely cropped, dressed in a fisherman’s jersey and knickerbockers, who spat very neatly in the roadway.

‘We must ask where the house is,’ said Lucia, leaning out of the window of her Rolls-Royce. ‘I wonder if you would be so good as to tell me—’

The clergyman sprang forward.

‘It’ll be Miss Mapp’s house you’re seeking,’ he said in a broad Scotch accent. ‘Straight up the street, to yon corner, and it’s right there is Mistress Mapp’s house.’

The odd-looking girl gave a short hoot of laughter, and they all stared at Lucia. The car turned with difficulty and danced slowly up the steep narrow street.

‘Georgie, he told me where it was before I asked,’ said Lucia. ‘It must be known in Tilling that I was coming. What a strange accent that clergyman had! A little tipsy, do you think, or only Scotch? The others too! All most interesting and unusual. Gracious, here’s an enormous car coming down. Can we pass, do you think?’

By means of both cars driving on to the pavement on each side of the cobbled roadway, the passage was effected, and Lucia caught sight of a large woman inside the other, who in spite of the heat of the day wore a magnificent sable cloak. A small man with a monocle sat eclipsed by her side. Then, with glimpses of more red-brick houses to right and left, the car stopped at the top of the street opposite a very dignified door. Straight in front where the street turned at a right angle, a room with a large bow-window faced them; this, though slightly separate from the house, seemed to belong to it. Georgie thought he saw a woman’s face peering out between half-drawn curtains, but it whisked itself away.

‘Georgie, a dream,’ whispered Lucia, as they stood on the doorstep waiting for their ring to be answered. ‘That wonderful chimney, do you see, all crooked. The church, the cobbles, the grass and dandelions growing in between them… Oh, is Miss Mapp in? Mrs Lucas. She expects me.’

They had hardly stepped inside, when Miss Mapp came hurrying in from a door in the direction of the bow-window where Georgie had thought he had seen a face peeping out.

‘Dear Mrs Lucas,’ she said. ‘No need for introductions, which makes it all so happy, for how well I remember you at Riseholme, your lovely Riseholme. And Mr Pillson! Your wonderful garden-party! All so vivid still. Red-letter days! Fancy your having driven all this way to see my little cottage! Tea at once, Withers, please. In the garden-room. Such a long drive but what a heavenly day for it. I got your telegram at breakfast-time this morning. I could have clapped my hands for joy at the thought of possibly having such a tenant as Mrs Lucas of Riseholme. But let us have a cup of tea first. Your chauffeur? Of course he will have his tea here, too. Withers: Mrs Lucas’s chauffeur. Mind you take care of him.’

Miss Mapp took Lucia’s cloak from her, and still keeping up an effortless flow of hospitable monologue, led them through a small panelled parlour which opened on to the garden. A flight of eight steps with a canopy of wistaria overhead led to the garden-room.

‘My little plot,’ said Miss Mapp. ‘Very modest, as you see, three-quarters of an acre at the most, but well screened. My flower-beds: sweet roses, tortoiseshell butterflies. Rather a nice clematis. My Little Eden I call it, so small, but so well beloved.’

‘Enchanting!’ said Lucia, looking round the garden before mounting the steps up to the garden-room door. There was a very green and well-kept lawn, set in bright flower-beds. A trellis at one end separated it from a kitchen-garden beyond, and round the rest ran high brick walls, over which peered the roofs of other houses. In one of these walls was cut a curved archway with a della Robbia head above it.

‘Shall we just pop across the lawn,’ said Miss Mapp, pointing to this, ‘and peep in there while Withers brings our tea? Just to stretch the—the limbs, Mrs Lucas, after your long drive. There’s a wee little plot beyond there which is quite a pet of mine. And here’s sweet Puss-Cat come to welcome my friends. Lamb! Love-bird!’

Love-bird’s welcome was to dab rather crossly at the caressing hand which its mistress extended, and to trot away to ambush itself beneath some fine hollyhocks, where it regarded them with singular disfavour.

‘My little secret garden,’ continued Miss Mapp as they came to the archway. ‘When I am in here and shut the door, I mustn’t be disturbed for anything less than a telegram. A rule of the house: I am very strict about it. The tower of the church keeping watch, as I always say over my little nook, and taking care of me. Otherwise not overlooked at all. A little paved walk round it, you see, flower-beds, a pocket-handkerchief of a lawn, and in the middle a pillar with a bust of good Queen Anne. Picked it up in a shop here for a song. One of my lucky days.’

‘Oh Georgie, isn’t it too sweet?’ cried Lucia.
‘Un giardino segreto. Molto bello!’

Miss Mapp gave a little purr of ecstasy.

‘How lovely to be able to talk Italian like that,’ she said. ‘So pleased you like my little..
. giardino segreto,
was it? Now shall we have our tea, for I’m sure you want refreshment, and see the house afterwards? Or would you prefer a little whisky and soda, Mr Pillson? I shan’t be shocked. Major Benjy—I should say Major Flint—often prefers a small whisky and soda to tea on a hot day after his game of golf, when he pops in to see me and tell me all about it.’

The intense interest in humankind, so strenuously cultivated at Riseholme, obliterated for a moment Lucia’s appreciation of the secret garden.

‘I wonder if it was he whom we saw at the corner of the High Street,’ she said. ‘A big soldier-like man, with a couple of golf-clubs.’

‘How you hit him off in a few words,’ said Miss Mapp admiringly. ‘That can be nobody else but Major Benjy. Going off no doubt by the steam-tram (most convenient, lands you close to the links) for a round of golf after tea. I told him it would be far too hot to play earlier. I said I should scold him if he was naughty and played after lunch. He served for many years in India. Hindustanee is quite a second language to him. Calls
“Quai-hai”
when he wants his breakfast. Volumes of wonderful diaries, which we all hope to see published some day. His house is next to mine down the street. Lots of tiger-skins. A rather impetuous bridge-player: quite wicked sometimes. You play bridge of course, Mrs Lucas. Plenty of that in Tilling. Some good players.’

They had strolled back over the lawn to the garden-room where Withers was laying tea. It was cool and spacious, one window was shaded with the big leaves of a fig-tree, through which, unseen, Miss Mapp so often peered out to see whether her gardener was idling. Over the big bow-window looking on to the street one curtain was half-drawn, a grand piano stood near it, book-cases half-lined the walls, and above them hung many water-colour sketches of the sort that proclaims a domestic origin. Their subjects also betrayed them, for there was one of the front of Miss Mapp’s house, and one of the secret garden, another of the crooked chimney, and several of the church tower looking over the house-roofs on to Miss Mapp’s lawn.

Though she continued to spray on her visitors a perpetual shower of flattering and agreeable trifles, Miss Mapp’s inner attention was wrestling with the problem of how much a week, when it came to the delicate question of terms for the rent of her house, she should ask Lucia. The price had not been mentioned in her advertisement in
The Times,
and though she had told the local house-agent to name twelve guineas a week, Lucia was clearly more than delighted with what she had seen already, and it would be a senseless Quixotism to let her have the house for twelve, if she might, all the time, be willing to pay fifteen. Moreover, Miss Mapp (from behind the curtain where Georgie had seen her) was aware that Lucia had a Rolls-Royce car, so that a few additional guineas a week would probably be of no significance to her. Of course, if Lucia was not enthusiastic about the house as well as the garden, it might be unwise to ask fifteen, for she might think that a good deal, and would say something tiresome about letting Miss Mapp hear from her when she got safe away back to Riseholme, and then it was sure to be a refusal. But if she continued to rave and talk Italian about the house when she saw over it, fifteen guineas should be the price. And not a penny of that should Messrs Woolgar & Pipstow, the house-agents, get for commission since Lucia had said definitely that she saw the advertisement in
The Times.
That was Miss Mapp’s affair: nothing to do with Woolgar & Pipstow. Meantime she begged Georgie not to look at those water-colours on the walls.

‘Little daubs of my own,’ she said, most anxious that this should be known. ‘I should sink into the ground with shame, clear Mr Pillson, if you looked at them, for I know what a great artist you are yourself. And Withers has brought us our tea… You like the one of my little
giardino segreto?
(I must remember that beautiful phrase.) How kind of you to say so! Perhaps it isn’t quite so bad as the others, for the subject inspired me, and it’s so important, isn’t it, to love your subject? Major Benjy likes it too. Cream, Mrs Lucas? I see Withers has picked some strawberries for us from my little plot. Such a year for strawberries! And Major Benjy was chatting with friends I’ll be bound, when you passed him.’

‘Yes, a clergyman,’ said Lucia, ‘who kindly directed us to your house. In fact he seemed to know we were going there before I said so, didn’t he, Georgie? A broad Scotch accent.’

‘Dear Padre!’ said Miss Mapp. ‘It’s one of his little ways to talk Scotch, though he came from Birmingham. A very good bridge-player when he can spare time as he usually can. Reverend Kenneth Bartlett. Was there a teeny little thin woman with him like a mouse? It would be his wife.’

‘No, not thin, at all,’ said Lucia thoroughly interested. ‘Quite the other way round: in fact round. A purple coat and a skirt covered with pink roses that looked as if they were made of chintz.’

Miss Mapp nearly choked over her first sip of tea, but just saved herself.

‘I declare I’m quite frightened of you, Mrs Lucas,’ she said. ‘What an eye you’ve got. Dear Diva Plaistow, whom we’re all devoted to. Christened Godiva! Such a handicap! And they
were
chintz roses, which she cut out of an old pair of curtains and tacked them on. She’s full of absurd delicious fancies like that. Keeps us all in fits of laughter. Anyone else?’